The End Of Autumn

Spent autumn wanes; the leaf Forsakes the vine, as from her coronal The gems might fall, Forgot by some mad empress in her grief. Now, from the sycamores, A ruinous and crumpled bronze is cast; Grown sere at last, The reeds lie broken on the river-shores. Now, from the outland peaks, The ghostly snows crawl downward on the blue; Gone forth anew, For huger suns the southering autumn seeks. Decembral stars return In long blue twilights to the eastern hill; But, lost and still, In high ravines her flameless embers burn. Bleak with the winter's breath, A wind comes down; fantastic skeletons Of steel and bronze, Creak the cold willows in a dance of death.